


it's not fair to have to lose you twice

by emavee



Series: Whumptober 2020 [15]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (it's Dick), Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Denial, Gen, Grief/Mourning, off screen major character death, references to Dick's "fake" death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27021217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emavee/pseuds/emavee
Summary: Father has faked Richard’s death before—that has to be the case this time as well. It has to be. Damian refuses to accept any other alternative.Whumptober Day 19: grief, mourning a loved one
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Series: Whumptober 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948276
Comments: 10
Kudos: 131





	it's not fair to have to lose you twice

**Author's Note:**

> yes this is technically day 19 but i'm switching some things around bc i have a Plan

Damian has never woken up alone in the med bay before, not once since his arrival in Gotham. There is always someone there, waiting for him. He doesn’t this time either, but the person he really wants to see isn’t the one in the chair by his bedside. Today, that honor belongs to Father, but usually it is Richard. It is almost always Richard. Almost.

Once before, he had awoken and Father had been there instead, and it had been one of the worst moments of Damian’s life. 

His father had brought him back, gone to extraordinary lengths to bring him back to life, but he’d been brought back into a world where he was led to believe that Richard was dead. His father had lied, lied to them all, and sent Richard far, far away with very little contact and no extraction plan. Damian is still angry with his father about it.

He cannot believe Father is trying to pull the same stunt once again.

He woke up in the med bay, confused and hurting. Father sits by his side, his hand loosely gripping Damian’s as he stares at his lap. It takes him far too long to even notice that Damian has awoken, something so very unlike him. It isn’t until a pained gasp manages to escape as Damian that he looks up, reaching out a gentle hand to try and stop Damian from twisting about, trying to locate the whereabouts of anyone else who might be waiting for him. If Richard wasn’t at his bedside, then surely he must be injured as well. The thought tastes sour in his mouth, but so long as Richard is here with Damian, everything will be alright, even if Damian may have to waste his mental energies preparing some sort of (possibly hypocritical) lecture about taking better care of himself. 

“Father,” Damian croaks out. 

“Damian.” Father smiles, but it’s strained, and not in his usual, emotionally-constipated (to use Richard’s own words) manner. There is deep sadness there— _ grief, _ Damian will realize later when he looks back on this moment—and he knew immediately that something has gone horribly wrong.

And he has his suspicions as to what. 

“Where—where is Richard?”

The hand gripping his own tightens, growing almost painful. Damian both wants to wrench away and never let go. 

“Damian…” Father sighs. “We don’t have to discuss this right now.”

Damian glares for all he is worth. “Do not lie to me, Father. Where is he?”

“Damian… The explosion… It caught you both, but…”

“But what, Father? Is he injured? Will he be alright?”

“Dick was… He was much closer to the epicenter than you. I’m so sorry, Damian.”

“No,  _ no. _ Richard is stronger than some measly explosion. We just need to search harder—” He struggles to sit up, Father’s hands catching his shoulders and once again easing him back down.

“Damian, I’m sorry, but he’s not just missing. We found him, shortly after we found you. We… were already too late.”

“No,” Damian insists. It’s not true. Father is wrong. Father is  _ lying.  _ “There must be something—”

“I really am sorry, Damian. You must know that I did everything in my power to—”

“Shut up.” He squeezes his eyes shut, if only so he can stop looking at that  _ ridiculous _ look on his father’s face. “Go away.”

“Damian…”

“I said leave!” he bursts out. “Go. Away.”

His father hesitates, the touch of his hand lingering, but eventually he pulls away, only Damian’s extensive training allowing him to track the sound of his retreating footfall. His hand suddenly feels cold where Father had been holding it, and his fingers curl into a fist on reflex to try and stop the feeling from spreading to the rest of him. He does not want Father’s physical affection anyway; he really only utilizes it as a form of comfort when things are dire, and things are  _ not _ dire. They aren’t.

Father has faked Richard’s death before—that has to be the case this time as well. It has to be. Damian refuses to accept any other alternative.

* * *

He has been avoiding Father and his rampant, disgusting lies. Father must know where he is, but he’s at least leaving Damian alone. Good. Damian does not want to see him until he is prepared to tell the truth. It is not as if Damian cannot keep a secret. Wherever Richard is undercover, Damian will not tell a soul. He would not even try to contact Richard or distract him from his mission. He merely wants to know where he is, if he is okay. When he will be back.

And he will hide out in Richard’s room in protest until Father gives in and tells him.

His brother may not be dead, but he is at least far away, and although it has only been a day and a half, Damian still misses him. 

Richard’s room is not used nearly as often as the others since he mostly lives in his apartment in Bludhaven, but it still feels like Richard there, and there’s usually a spare sweatshirt that Damian can borrow lurking in the closet. He finds one of Richard’s favorites: a faded blue-grey with worn cuffs and a feather-soft lining. It hangs nearly to Damian’s knees, but he likes how easy it is to tuck his hands inside the sleeves and pull the hood up, completely engulfed and hidden away from everything. He curls up on the bed, on top of the comforter but underneath the additional quilt that usually rests on the back of the plush armchair in the corner, listening to music and hanging an arm over the side to absently scratch Titus’s head. 

Father, keeping up his charade despite Damian’s refusal to believe it, has been avoiding Richard’s room like the plague, just as he had done last time. Damian has no such convictions, seeing as Richard is not dead. This is no different than visiting his brother after a particularly bad patrol or some sort of heinous nightmare. 

The door swings open softly, almost tentatively, and Damian is surprised to see Drake slink in, solemn and quiet. He starts a little when he notices Damian, but doesn’t say anything, just purses his lips tighter together.

Drake stops in the middle of the room, just standing there, gazing around as if he hasn’t seen these walls a hundred times before. He looks so sad, almost lost, and truly pathetic. 

Damian frowns, sitting up just slightly. “What are you doing in here, Drake?”

Drake shoots him a glare but it’s weak, his heart not quite in it. “You’re not the only one allowed to mourn him.”

Damian should roll his eyes, but he finds he doesn’t really have the energy at the moment. Of course Drake would fall for Father’s lies, although he really ought to know better.

“Richard is not dead. Do not be a fool, Drake. Father is merely up to his schemes once again.”

Drake frowns, the glare sliding away. Damian hates it; there’s  _ pity _ in his eyes, pity Damian does not want nor need.

“Damian…”

“Are you really going to try and argue with me?" Damian snaps. "I am right. Richard is _alive._ Father has sent him away on some mission but he will return. We just have to wait.”

“There’s nothing to wait for,” Drake snarls back. “He’s not coming back this time, Damian. He’s dead. Actually dead.”

Damian scoffs. “You are an even greater fool than I realized. Why else has Father kept the body hidden away? He does not want us to inspect too closely, it is a fake, because the real Richard is out there somewhere. Perhaps… perhaps together we can convince Father to say where.” He offers Drake something approximating a smile, hoping to sway him. Drake must understand. He had many grievances with Richard’s first fake death; surely he would not be so quick to give up on him a second time. 

But if anything, Drake just gets angrier, face growing red and fists shaking by his sides. “He’s dead, Damian. Let it go.”

“But how can you be so sure?” Damian asks. “You, of all people—“

“I was there, okay?” Drake’s voice cracks, whole body slumping like a puppet on strings. “I’m—I’m the one that found him. Not Bruce, it was me. I saw him, Damian, and it wasn’t—it wasn’t pretty. Bruce is keeping you away because you don't need to see that. You don't need to see _him_ like that.” He shudders, staring off into space, something deeply scarred etched into the lines of his face.

Damian sucks in a sharp breath. “But... but Father still could have—”

“No, Damian. He couldn’t.” Drake takes a deep breath, and this time when he speaks, he’s calm. Empty. Face blank except for the pinching around his mouth and the glistening of his eyes. “There was nothing anyone could do.”

Damian’s eyes are hot and itchy, vision blurring in and out of focus. Drake’s face morphs and smudges as he slinks closer, awkwardly and tentatively settling on the edge of the bed next to Damian.

“Believe me,” he says softly, staring at his own shaking hands in his lap, “if I thought there was  _ any _ chance… I didn’t look for him last time, and I should have, but this time I—I know for sure. He’s dead, Damian. It’s not some elaborate scheme, no matter how much we wish it was.”

“I don’t believe you,” Damian whispers. “I refuse to believe that. Richard would not just—just  _ die. _ ”

“I miss him too. I miss him _a lot,_ ” Drake says, carrying on as if Damian hadn’t even spoken. “It hasn’t even been two days but I already miss him.”

“He would not just leave me,” Damian insists. “He swore it.”

“He didn’t get the choice. I’m sure—I’m sure he wanted to stay.” His words do nothing to make Damian feel better. 

Damian curls up tighter, burning his face in Richard’s pillow. It smells like him, and that makes something in Damian’s chest  _ ache, _ but he can’t bring himself to pull away. Instead he burrows deeper wishing he could pretend like Drake wasn’t here, sitting on the same bed and grieving too, wishing he could go back to before Drake came in here, before Damian woke up in the med bay  _ alone alone alone. _

But Drake does not leave. Damian feels the bed shift as Drake falls back to lie atop the comforter, seemingly not going anywhere anytime soon. Damian tilts his head just enough to peer out at him, and though his arm is thrown across his eyes, Damian knows that Drake is crying.

This is real. Richard is really dead. He’s gone, for good this time. He’s really and truly gone.

Damian feels something  _ crack  _ deep down inside of him, something that he will never be able to glue back together. 

Despite Drake still resting at the foot of the bed, he has never felt more alone. 

It feels like drowning, he thinks. The feelings crashing down around are smothering him and filling up his lungs, choking him from the inside out. The breaths he sucks in don’t feel satisfying, aren’t strong enough to push away the heavy grief that’s settled in his chest like stones. 

Richard is dead, and maybe some part of him already knew that because why else would he be curled up on his brother’s bed, wrapped in a stolen sweatshirt? His denial had done nothing but prolong his grief, put it off so that when it hit, it was that much worse. 

He will never see Richard again. He tries to remember the last thing he said to him, prays it wasn’t something horrible and ungrateful. He can’t remember. He doesn’t remember much of anything from the night Richard died—the concussion had erased his last moments with his brother and now he’ll never get them back. He does not know if he was rude, if Richard had pulled him in for one final hug or if he had ruffled his hair “ _ for good luck, little D. _ ” 

It does not feel real. Richard leaves, he has his own life, his own place, his own friends and missions and things to do, but he always comes back. Always. He’d promised.

“I hate you,” Damian mumbles into the soft fabric of Richard’s pillowcase. He is speaking to no one and everyone all at once but Drake takes it upon himself to respond.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Damian barely hears him over the ragged sounds of his own breathing. 

And then there is a hand slipping into his own, and Damian can’t help but cling to it. Drake’s fingers are slightly slimmer than Richard’s, and they lack the calluses that come from hours spent doing gymnastics and acrobatics out of costume, but they squeeze just as tight. Damian doesn’t try to pretend that the hand holding his is Richard—he will not fool himself again—but he does hold on, gripping Drake’s hand as if his life depends on it, and Drake does the same. 

**Author's Note:**

> wonder how many times i'm gonna kill dick this month... whoops :)
> 
> [now with a sequel!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115184)


End file.
